Sucker Punch
by glossed
Summary: Pansy Parkinson has thrown herself into a whirlpool of regret by the time the years creep up on her. And when she reluctantly finds herself enamoured with a guy she'd never even given a second glance toward, she discovers that maybe, just maybe, the journey of love starts with herself. pansy/neville.
1. I

_·_

 ** _sucker punch_**

 _SUMMARY: Pansy Parkinson has thrown herself in a whirlpool of regret by the time the years after the war creep up on her. And when she reluctantly finds herself more interested than anything in a guy with an affinity toward strange plants, Shakespeare, and Muggle films, she discovers that maybe, just maybe, the journey of love starts with yourself. pansy/neville — my babies._

 _A/N: this is M because yes, there is sex. like, actual sex (not between pansy/neville at first, so if you're not into that, well). and also, coarse language. pansy has no control over her sailor-like mouth or thoughts; she's not terribly sorry about it, either. you've been warned._

* * *

 _[dormant]_

She's primping. An absurd amount of it. Applying the right amount of Russian Red lipstick, till the thin lines of her lips bleed ruby, through and through. Then she blots it just the right amount with a pad of folded-over tissues, making sure to smear on the lipstick again. She's _primping_ because she's glancing at herself in the mirror, and Pansy doesn't quite recognise the person staring back.

It's Draco Malfoy's birthday. Twenty-seventh, to be exact.

It's funny, she thinks. Neither of them thought they would live past eighteen in the days where darkness resided over them like some fucking Merlin-handed disease. And here he is, overly lanky and still forever sulking in his black tops and trousers, lavishly celebrating his twenty-seventh cycle around the sun.

She remembers the days they spent, as pre-pubescent and awkwardly-spoken thirteen-year-old children, exploring each other's mouths like they were sipping on ambrosia for the first time. And the days way, _way_ before that, when they tucked around each other in the creaky twin-beds, whispering about monsters under the bed; they really should've been worried about the monsters in the head, Pansy thinks.

Pansy finishes raking over her lace black dress with cup sleeves and a sharp V-neck and her blood-red lips before mussing up her ebony hair. Sex-hair without the actual sex is her speciality, among other things, but _this_ in particular depicted the right amount of her unperturbed demeanour.

She saunters out without another look back into the dingy mirror of the tavern that Malfoy's _precious_ lover offered as a place to relax after his dinner party.

When she makes it back out to the dimly-lit pub, Pansy sees Draco sitting at the edge of the booth, a breadth's away from his 'oh-so-fucking-adorable' girlfriend, Granger. Not that they were _ever_ affectionate the same way Pansy and Draco used to be at Hogwarts, so one can barely tell they shag on the side. They never even touched in public; kissing was off-limits, grazing hands was uncalled for, and _Merlin have mercy_ if they even held eye-contact for longer than twenty seconds. _Dating_? More like attending a nunnery together. Pansy scoffs every time she thinks about it.

Pansy hadn't even _known_ they were dating until she noticed he had a lot of less free time and a lot less energy in the mornings on the weekends. It took a whole five and a half months and about five glasses of firewhiskey to get him to admit — ' _yes, Granger and I are a thing or something, now get off my fucking arse.'_

Or something. She held onto that for a while. Like the pathetic fool she is. Until she saw him grin a shit-eating smile for the first time in years. _Years_. He's never taken to smiling; he told her that he never had much to smile about, anyway. But one look at Granger, and he was gone. Years of self-deprecation and hatred wiped off his face in an instant because of her off-hand comment about his weird obsession with tweed coats.

And sitting across from Draco is none other than Neville Longbottom, his newly acquired best friend in the years post-war. After realising how much he despised everything about England, Draco left in a rush to 'sort himself out' or something. He returned three years later, with longer hair, a placid personality, and a fervent appreciation for Muggle fizzy drinks. Unlike Pansy, who spent the better part of those same three years rotting with guilt washing over her body like _sin_ and with her legs wrapped around every guy she could get her claws into.

Draco returned, and she soon found him practically _fornicating_ with Neville Longbottom. Not _literally_ because oh, _Merlin_ , would that be a sight _._ But walking into his flat — in _Muggle_ London, of all places — and seeing them stretched out languidly on the couch, sipping golden foaming beers like two old friends meeting after years was surprising as hell to say the least.

"So, you and Longbottom are buddy-buddy, now?" Pansy had asked him, leaning on his doorway as he changed shirts. He'd always been quite bony in the war, but ever since he came back from gallivanting around the world, he looked healthier than ever. She was glad.

"It's invigorating, you know?" he had commented, tossing on a pale blue top and mussing up the hair that curled over his ears. "Being friends with someone without the pressure of my father castrating me for my choice in crony."

"This is because you like the _freedom_ that comes with daddy dearest not having the ability to hawk-eye you?"

" _No_ , it's because when Longbottom stood up to the wizard that made me practically piss myself in his presence, I realised what a fucking joke my life was." He had paused combing through his hair with mousse, glanced over his shoulder, and laughed sardonically. "I was a coward. And he wasn't. I — I think I admire that."

"Who are you, and what've you done with Draco Malfoy?" Pansy had squinted before walking up to him and checking his forehead and expecting a practically sizzling fever.

"Gods, Pansy." He had grabbed her wrists and pretended to shackle her. "You should try making _friends_. Actual ones. It's enthralling, truly."

It hit her _then_. How much he didn't resemble the face of a scared, helpless boy anymore, but rather a resilient man. And it hit her in the same way that she _wanted_ to be just like that.

"You make it sound like Longbottom has the appeal of expensive champagne and the hands of a sensual masseuse, the way you're talking about him."

"It's not. It's better. It's different," he had said softly.

So, it's not surprising that Longbottom's _here_ of all places on Draco's birthday. So-called _best_ friends tended to show up one time or another. The lot of them are toasting with another round of spiced rum when Pansy slides in across from Granger, who's busy chatting up Adrian Pucey with bright eyes and true intentions.

"Done grooming?" Draco asked blankly, pulling the sleeve of his coat to check his watch. "The dog show's not for another hour, you know. You wouldn't want to jump the gun on the category for overly-pretentious-looking-snob."

 _Sure_ , he'd changed in terms of his past associations with blood and inferiority complexes; but Draco Malfoy sure was cocky and cruel as ever. Pansy sneers and sticks her tongue out at him. The corners of his lips twitch. Only after he came back from the Muggle world — as a really, _really_ changed man, _apparently_ — did he start integrating phrases like 'jump the gun' into his vocabulary. It annoys the shit out of Pansy, and he _knows_ it.

"Sometimes I wonder why I didn't strangle you in your sleep when I had the chance," she bites back, calling over the waiter to order apple schnapps — because, _suddenly_ , she feels a lot more convinced to get sloshed on sweet drinks in order to get through the night in one heap.

"Easy." Draco lets out a ferocious smile. "You were too busy worried about your nails getting chipped in the process, _darling_."

"Aw, _sweetheart_ ," she coos, placing a hand over her chest — and secretly, _secretly_ hoping he can see her newly filed to a sharp tip and blood-orange nails juxtaposed against her dress. "You care for me with the most _pious_ intentions."

"Are you two always this—" Longbottom cuts in with raised eyebrows, gesturing with his meaty hands between the two of them, "—cutthroat?"

"Yes," they both reply at the same time, eyes half-lidded and heavy.

"Good to know." Longbottom sinks back into his seat, shoulders wide and stretched taut against his shirt.

Ah, Pansy has always had a good eye for art, and _fuck all_ if Neville Longbottom didn't graduate from a rotund boy into one sopping, messy pile of eye-fuckery. His hazel-green eyes screaming lush verdant temples, and, fuck, his dirty blond hair, scruffy and tousled and _everything_ she wants between her fingers. Not that she'd ever admit to such a thought, but it lingers at the back of her mind for a while.

She watches him with a pitiful amount of interest behind the tumbler of her drink.

Because yet—

Yet.

 _Yet_ he had that thing about him.

But then again, they _all_ did.

They all have _those_ signs. Ones that flashed and waved above their heads in a totally ostentatious way — like _'look at me, this is my past and this is me.'_ Some people had them buried underneath their skin — like Draco's ability to ignore the fact that he has no parents or the fact his ancestral home was burnt to the ground; and like Pansy's ability to pretend she didn't offer up Harry Potter on a silver-fucking-platter for the Dark Lord to feast on.

And some people wore them on their skin — like Neville Longbottom for instance, who had part of his left ear melted like candle wax, running rivers of scars down his veiny ears, from when he stood up in front of You-Know-Who with an amount of Gryffindor bravery that scared Pansy shitless. He could've gotten it healed, fully patched up like everything was brand new and shiny. But he didn't. Pansy thinks it's some sort of look-at-me complex. Like the words ' _pity me_ ' should be stamped on his forehead. She _loathes_ it.

Pansy glances up once more from her apple schnapps to find Longbottom gazing at her back with pin-prickled pupils, like one would assume he stares at plants all day long.

It itches at her skin.

And.

 _And_ —

She feels the need to stare right back or wipe her face or lick her teeth for scrapes of Russian Red lipstick or _something_ of the other.

Then she _laughs_. The day Longbottom makes her feel something other than pathetically superior would be the day she crams _every single_ type of coconut cream flavoured sweet into her mouth. She hates coconut. A lot. Just like she hates his stupidly ornate show of bravery.

And when she gets the chance to look at him once again, he's not staring anymore.

 **·**

"Still here, Parkinson?" Marcus Flint greets, only slightly slurring with that feral smile of his plastered on his face. "One would think someone like you would leave before the big men got around to playing."

 _Big men._

What a _fucking_ tool—

She feels nauseated at his words; but she finds that if she focuses on the spot above his right shoulder, the next few pathetic lines of his flirting won't put her off too much.

And Pansy knew what his crooked, eggshell-coloured teeth meant — he's out leering for a fuck. And she knows she's a good one. Yet, he seems to have garnered the reputation of completely lusting after Katie Bell, who barely gives him the time of day. But Flint _still_ mows through girls like a hobby, even if he was enamoured with his Quidditch teammate. She doesn't mind much, though; he has _also_ gathered a nice reputation of having a ravishing body.

"I'm waiting for someone, you see," she replies in a purr, twirling the small red straw in her White Russian cocktail before lifting it and sucking on the end. Bait and tackle. His dark eyes glaze over. Reel him in.

He pretends to glance around before focusing in on her, the lecherous stare increasing ten-fold. "The bloke's a real wanker if he can't see he's wasting your _sweet_ time."

Sweet, _indeed_.

They've hooked up a couple of times, here and there. Marcus Flint had always had an affinity toward cornering whatever girl was left in the pub, like predator scoping out cheap prey. And he's always taking a fancy toward dirty-talking and slut-shaming during the deed itself also, something that annoys the hell out of her. It's his MO. But he's good in bed. _He_ knows it. _She_ knows it. They _both_ know it.

She leans further into the cupped stool, crossing her legs, which is unbearably hard in her skin-tight dress, before saying, "Care to teach him a thing or two about time management?"

Flint downs his drink in one gulp, and she watches a drop of amber liquid slip down the muscles in his throat. He leans in and whispers, "You betcha."

She grabs onto his wrist softly, dragging him back into the storage room marked for staff near the edge of the room, where the light barely shone on the walls. She doesn't need light; darkness is always following her, anyway.

Pansy makes the mistake of looking up briefly toward the birthday boy's table — which she had abandoned nearly an hour ago in the possibility of chatting up the staff for a free drink — feeling Neville's white-hot gaze on her face, his blank eyes betraying no emotion. He barely flickers over Marcus before staring at Pansy again — right through her, heart and soul combined. Like Longbottom _knows_ something about her. _Anything_. And it burns at her skin like an off-brand bottle of lotion bought in Knockturn.

Marcus sloppily leans over her, gripping onto her shoulders a little too tight with his grimy nails, and Pansy continues on her trek to the back, her face bursting into flames of embarrassment. She imagines _him_ to be thinking about how much of a strumpet she is. It's not something new that she's heard. It's typical. Common. Unoriginal.

And it fuels her flames even more; she knows for a fact how much the blood pumping through her veins courses with intent after that. She _needs_ Marcus. _Now_.

Quickening her steps, Pansy pushes him into the dark room, her hands searching for a light switch before flicking it on. He gives her a single sultry look; she is fucking _wrecked_. His hands tangle in her already mussed up sex-hair before attacking her mouth, all teeth and nose and tongue in one. Single. Go.

He slams her into the wall, located in the seedy room in the back like they're some cheap teenagers clawing for some privacy away from their stick-up-the-arse parents, lights dim and humming with the wretched smell of alcohol acidly burning at her nose. His calloused hands run down her inner thighs, and his mouth latches onto her neck, sucking the sliver of skin taut.

Marcus tears her knickers down her legs, gives a single stroke of his fingers on her cunt, and enters her with one thrust. He groans, and she gasps. Their sounds are droned out by the rattling of beer bottles on the shelf near them and the harsh slapping of flesh.

"How many times," he breathes out, dank air hitting the spot by her jaw, "have you imagined _this_? My fucking cock"—a wheezy, drawn-out breath mingling with hers—"in you. You goddamn _whore_. Filthy, _fucking_ slut—"

"God — I _hate_ you," she groans wantonly, slamming her head back against the dingy wall. She grips onto his muscular shoulders, practically skinning him by digging her nails ferociously through his t-shirt. His hands palm gruffly at her skin; her thighs, her breasts, her calves.

It's animalistic. Fierce. Frantic. Ferocious. And it's _fucking_ —

"Then it's _okay_ if you're thinking. . . about someone else," he rasps into her ear suddenly, thrusting with every other word; she lets out a tiny moan and wraps her legs tighter around his slim waist, digging her heels. She shifts her hand between them to move herself along. "I am — _too_. _God_ , I am—"

Sleazy. Cheap. Trash. Bastard. Marcus _fucking_ Flint. All interchangeable.

But then there's always that cynical and self-deprecating voice purring in the back of Pansy's mind — _spread your legs just a little wider and let them take what they want_. Then at least, they give back and manage to hold you just for a little bit after. Boys will always do that, she learned. You give, they'll take. And then they'll kiss you a couple times. Fill you up to the brim with warm touches for a fleeting moment. Wrap you up in their arms until they take you again. And maybe that's enough. She's so empty, so _hungry_ , for love that the brief bout of affection leaves her satisfied for days to come.

Marcus growls with every slam, every grunt, and Pansy thinks that if she stopped squeezing her eyes so hard and used her hand to touch the hills of her cheeks, she would feel hot tears slipping through the cracks of her fingers. He's close — she knows it. He's panting. And rough. And shaking. And her mind lingers on everything _except_ Flint to get off and—

Then somewhere, _somehow_ , in the back of her fuzzy mind, she sees _him_. His hot stare on her as she practically leers on Marcus like the trollop he probably thinks she is. His hazel-green eyes and blond hair looming above her instead of the dark hair and whiskey eyes in front of her. She's thinking about _him_. _Imagining_ what it would be like to have his head of hair somewhere between her thighs till his lips are swollen and hurting; and _imagining_ his white-hot gaze on her breasts, and her stomach, and her pink flesh. Pansy comes undone in a burst of bright stars behind her eyes near seconds later, gasps of air undulating out of her warm mouth before she can finally catch her breath.

Marcus shoves his tongue in her mouth one last time as his release seeps down her thighs; it's the affection she's been waiting for.

And she drinks it up like a thirsty kitten waiting for warm milk on a stormy day.


	2. II

_a/n: thank you to elly32, heyHEYOhSorry, and tmtcltb for reviewing! hope you enjoy._

 **·**

 _[dormant II]_

Friends.

It's a terribly pitiful day when that's what the people around her are considered to be.

What a sad fucking word to associate with a group of gossiping girls. Pansy is on the verge of gouging her eyes out with the nearest stirring spoon or plastering on a smile so tight that one could practically bounce a knut on it. At this point, she's rolling with the latter.

Now that she thinks about it, Pansy has never really had a friend since the dawn of her birth—unless playing her house elves count. But even that had an expiration date—the eve of her seventh birthday when her mother nearly fainted with all her pent-up rage at Pansy's refusal to play with anyone except the elves. Maybe she liked them better. Elves didn't have the choice to not be her friend. They were just always there for her. And maybe that's what she liked the most.

She only goes to the twice-a-month soiree at Millicent Bulstrode's house to appease her mother—whose eyes have begun to twinkle at the mention of any prominent bachelor on the market or a girl friend she goes out with. _Meddling mother_ , through and through.

Pansy can barely eat without getting shifty, judgemental looks from the girls around her, and if _that_ isn't the most annoying thing ever, she also has to deal with—

"Merlin, I mean, did you even hear what Tracey Davis did the other day?" Millicent covers the snide snicker following her accusal with her polished hand. Old money and flirty smiles procures the best manicures around, apparently.

"What?" Astoria says, leaning forward on her knees to absorb all the gossip she can. Pansy doesn't hate the younger witch. Everyone appreciated gossip—but Astoria, _oh_ , she _thrives_ on it.

"She and Zabini were totally groping each other. Someone caught them in a back room together, naked from the waist down." Millicent purses her lips before taking an extended sip of her tea. Many of the women surrounding let out looks of sheer disgust, and Pansy couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"What. A. Slag." An ex-girlfriend of Blaise grits out. Mary Liddle, she thinks. "She just can't keep her claws out of men, can she?"

And Pansy is _seething_.

Pansy speaks up for the first time while shifting uncomfortably in her crimson skin-tight skirt, "So, she's a slag because she enjoys sex? If she wants to have sex, let her. How the fuck does it affect you?"—Astoria Greengrass let out a small choked noise voicing her surprise, and Pansy fucking _relishes_ in it—"If she wants to enjoy the act, _let her_. There's nothing substantially wrong with liking sex; she's a person with a reasonable desire — just like you and me. And besides, I hear what _people,_ "—as in Millicent nosy Bulstrode—"say about her. Most of that bull isn't even true. You're just putting her down for dating Zabini. And it seems to me _he's_ the one you should be mad at, not her."

"I — I," the girl stutters. What an imbecile. She can barely even form a cogent thought if it didn't include putting down someone.

"Pans—" someone else starts to say, but Pansy's already sauntering out of the tea room without another glance back. She makes sure to grab more than three biscuits on the way out.

 **·**

"I'm getting a migraine," Pansy declares, flopping onto Draco's couch in one heap, not really caring that her skirt likely rode up on her thighs. She pronounces it like 'mee-graine' just to get a rise out of Draco—and his previous adventures with women who barely understood the difference between an _i_ and an _e—_ and by the dark look on his face that passes just as quickly as it came, Pansy succeeds.

"You seem _so_ chipper, today," Draco comments off-handedly, keeping his gaze trained on the television in front of him. See? _Obsessed_ with Muggle things. Ironic, really. Some Japanese horror movie is playing, and the excessive use of blood and gore made Pansy cringe, but Draco is so absorbed in it, his eyes are gleaming with joy. Sickening.

"I've had a bad day." She waits for him to say _something—_ anything _—_ in response, but when he doesn't, she lifts her nose from nuzzling into his couch and kicks him on the side of his stomach. "You know, if you cared about me, you'd ask why I've had such a bad day."

"Good thing caring about you isn't an issue, then," Draco shoots back without even blinking. She clicks her jaw shut. He sighs in resignation a couple seconds later and grumbles, "Why've you had a bad day, my dearest Pansy?"

"If you must know, my budding spring tulip, all my so-called girl friends are all absolute cunts."

"You just realised this now, my supple succulent lilac of love? Talk about living underneath a rock."

"I fucking hate it when you start using those weird phrases of yours, Draco."

He shrugs effortlessly, and she toes him again. "You know, you have to leave in roughly—" he pulls the sleeve of his jumper down to glance at his watch, "—twenty-seven minutes. I'm expecting company, and you can't be here all mopey and morose. You're going to drag down the aura that I'm trying to replicate for the mood."

" _Aura_? If that's some deranged way to say 'get out of my flat, Pansy, I need to fuck my girlfriend,' then how about you try a more direct approach. Why don't you just say 'get out of my flat, Pansy, I need to fuck my girlfriend.' Say it with me, 'Get out—'"

"Ha ha bloody ha." Draco glares at her viciously before clearing his throat, "It's Neville. He's bringing over this new film collection that we need to watch tonight, and our agenda doesn't include you finally coming to the conclusion about how obtuse most of the people you talk to are."

Something in her stomach stirs uneasily. Right beneath her navel. Like she might vomit all over Draco's expensive Persian rug or her heart might concave into itself until it dissolves in the acid sitting baselessly in her torso. After running her fingers over those fretful gifts Marcus left on her back—because apparently being slammed into a wall isn't the best of surfaces for something she's always thought to be an act of love—she couldn't help but remember just who she was thinking of that night. She left the violet bruises as a painful reminder of what it feels like to succumb to her loneliness.

A soft sort of heat rises to the back of her neck before encompassing her face. Pansy rolls out her neck to feign indifference at the mention of Draco's best friend, but one of her hands trail up the marks on her spine. And then she does what she does best—plasters on a frigid smile and twists the situation to her favour.

"I _really_ appreciate the invite, Draco." She sighs and checks her dark nails. "Shall I sit on the right or left of you? Also, what films will it be this time? Last time you made me watch those dreaded ones about that man who kills people for a living and fucks those bimbo blondes on the side. Terribly cliché, if you ask me."

"You're not invited," he clarifies in a gruff tone.

Like _hell_ she isn't invited.

"Good thing I'm staying anyway." She snuggles into his couch and shoots a responding feral smile at his petulant scowl. He loves her. Really. "What's for dinner? I have the grumbles."

 ** _·_**

"Butter or no butter?" Pansy asks as Draco plops on the couch, legs spread wide and gathering up as much space to push her off the couch. He gets a bit grumpy when things don't go his way, you see. Draco merely grunts in reply, passing off the bowl of popcorn without a glance. "That wasn't even a bloody answer."

"No butter," he mutters, scraping his nails through his scalp angrily. "Longbottom hates the grease."

"What a darling you are," Pansy replies, leaning over to tap Draco on the nose. He swats her hands away. "You and your hidden lover discuss how to properly dress popcorn, of all things."

The doorbell shrieks loudly through her ears—because Draco refuses to get the chimes fixed after he accidentally kicked a football into the thundering bells—and Draco pushes off the couch to greet Neville bloody Longbottom.

And then _he_ glides in—not walks because apparently he's incapable of walking with his thundering, pounding feet slamming into the ground. Longbottom rounds the end of the hallway, eyes shifting between her and the television with mild, placid indifference.

He's tall—like, _really_ tall—and Pansy can't help but notice how he towers over Draco, who keeps his face neutral as he whispers to his friend something that makes Longbottom nod in understanding. Warmth unfurls in her belly like silky pink ribbons.

Longbottom holds up a bottle of lemonade and cocks his eyebrow at Pansy, silently asking her if she wants a drink. She slips on an unreadable look on her face—right beside the purse of her lips and the cross of her legs—and shakes her head, once, twice, to let him know that she doesn't want some silly Muggle fizzy drink.

Minutes later, all three of them are squished on Draco's only fucking couch in his fucking flat because he's a fucking piss-poor interior decorator apparently, and nothing but the buzzing of the television as Draco flickers through the settings resonates through the room.

A recurring thought runs through Pansy's head—that _maybe_ she should've left when Draco nonchalantly tried to kick her out an hour ago after her little whining fest. But doing so would make her admit something she hadn't ever wanted to, that maybe, just maybe, she's more lonely than she realises. If she goes home now, all she'll be doing is sipping on Chardonnay and painting her toenails again. Here, at least, she finds comfort in the silence engulfing her, because at least there are people around her to share the same experience with her.

"What film this time?" Draco questions, glancing over at Neville on the right side, who's busy eating popcorn one piece at a time.

"I thought we could dig into _Star Wars_ for the first time? I heard about it from Dean the other night over drinks."

Draco nods sagely, and Pansy itches uncomfortably at her pale pink skirt, pulling the hem down slightly. She leans her neck back to stare at the ceiling while the two of them discuss something or the other about how they need to start at the fourth movie and Draco's just _so_ utterly confused at the notion, he's taken to wanting to call up Granger and ask if the director was on narcotics when he released the movies out of order.

Pansy is still wavering between buggering off from this bromance session—maybe she could slip out the door while the two of them are in their next intense conversation about vases—and sitting idly by the two of them. Because right now it just feels. So. Fucking. Awkward. to be _here_ , of all places.

Draco slips the tape into the Vee-cee-something, and Pansy immediately shifts over on the couch, wishing she could hide between the cushions because Neville Longbottom is staring hotly at her again. Maybe he's deciphering her like some type of Arirthmancy problem or something, but Pansy fucking hates him for doing so.

She meets his eyes. He smiles, slow and lazy. She morphs her face into one of revulsion or confusion or contempt or something in between; _anything_ to make him stop showing off his little dimple just by the corner of his mouth.

The phone in his house—another one of Draco's ventures into the Muggle world—rings loudly, leaving Pansy to snap her neck back fast enough that she's genuinely surprised she doesn't leave a crick in her neck. Draco stands up, mumbling something about his bloody neighbour's drinking problem, and leaves the room.

Neville takes a second to inhale sharply. "You a fan of Muggle films as well?"

As if she's utterly disgusted at the fact, she grunts a harsh, "No."

He barely even blinks at her revolted look. "Then. . .?"

 _I'm just here_ , she wants to yell at him, _stop fucking pestering me._ But instead she smirks viciously and goes with, "I don't know. I decided to see what it'd be like to finally sully myself."

He shoot her a pointed look—something saying that he doesn't quite believe what she's trying to insinuate. It's patronising. She _loathes_ it. And then he turns his head away with another blazingly hot look etched onto his face.

Pansy squeezes her eyes shut and breathes deeply.

Fuck.

She _definitely_ should've left when she had the chance.


End file.
